The Holiday
by adelaidebabe
Summary: In London, Scott McCall-Hale writes a column in a newspaper and nurtures an unrequited love for his colleague. In Los Angeles, the movie-trailers maker Stiles Stilinski has just split with his unfaithful boyfriend and wants to forget him. Through a house exchange website, Stiles impulsively swaps his mansion for Scott's cottage in Surrey for the holidays. [full summary inside]
1. Chapter 1

full summary: In London, Scott McCall-Hale writes a column in a newspaper and nurtures an unrequited love for his colleague, Lydia Martin. Near Christmas, he is informed that Lydia is engaged to marry another colleague, and his life turns upside down. In Los Angeles, the movie-trailers maker Stiles Stilinski has just split with his unfaithful boyfriend Danny and wants to forget him. Through a house exchange website, Stiles impulsively swaps his mansion for Scott's cottage in Surrey for the holidays. While in Surrey, Stiles meets Scott's brother and history teacher, Derek, which results in a one night stand. Meanwhile, Scott meets a stunt double actress named Allison, who seems to be going through the same troubles Scott is in the relationship department.

aka The Holiday AU no one asked for or wanted.

**a/n**: Alright! So I'm going to try one of these work in progress things and hopefully I can get this finished by the end of December. That's my goal, at least, and (believe me) feedback would be the most helpful way to keep my butt in gear. One quick note: throughout this fic, **there will be direct quotes from the movie**. Keeping some lines from the movie will keep me grounded and able to stick to as close to the movie as I want. This is unbeta'd so all mistakes are mine and mine alone. If there's anything glaringly obvious, be sure to let me know!

Now, without further ado, I encourage you to read on!

* * *

_I've found almost everything ever written about love to be true. Shakespeare said, "Journeys end in lovers meeting." What an extraordinary thought. Personally, I have not experienced anything remotely close to that, but I am more than willing to believe Shakespeare had. I suppose I think about love more than anyone really should. I am constantly amazed by its sheer power to alter and define our lives. It was Shakespeare who also said, "Love is blind." Now that is something I know to be true. For some quite inexplicably, love fades; for others love is simply lost. But then of course love can also be found, even if just for the night. And then, there's another kind of love: the cruelest kind. The one that almost kills its victims. It's called unrequited love. Of that I am an expert. Most love stories are about people who fall in love with each other. But what about the rest of us? What about our stories, those of us who fall in love alone? We are the victims of the one sided affair. We are the cursed of the loved ones. We are the unloved ones, the walking wounded._

Scott sighed, saved the word document, and exited out of the word processor. He put his head in his hands. He needed to stop doing this. No, he really, really needed to stop doing this. He needed stop writing all this...whatever it was. It was all because of Lydia, yes, oh God, it really was but he needed to stop. Derek told him how completely ridiculous he was being but he couldn't help it.

He and Lydia were meant to be together! He could feel it. So what if they originally 'didn't work,' or if they weren't officially together anymore. She needed him. She said so herself. Even if she wasn't in love with him. And couldn't be in love with him. And wouldn't be in love with.

Especially after he found out that she was also having sex with that guy from upstairs. But it didn't matter! He loved Lydia, and they were destined to be together.

Scott sighed again. What was he doing? Writing confessions on his computer during a work Christmas party. He was hopeless. He needed to get away from himself, get away from his computer, and the hidden Christmas gift he has for Lydia hidden in one of the drawers in his desk. Shit. He has a problem. This amount of unrequited love couldn't be healthy in any way, shape, or form.

Scott pushed away from his desk and made his way out of his office. Joining the party would be a good distraction, right?

As soon as he stepped out of his office, he saw Lydia. Of course he did. It was like his eyes were drawn to her. Not to mention she had the most striking red hair Scott had ever encountered. She was gorgeous. She was beautiful. She was...looking in Scott's direction. He quickly moved, working to find his friend Boyd who would no doubt have some type of alcohol in his hand. Boyd didn't disappoint.

"Woah, now," he said, still holding the class as Scott held it up to his lips and _drank_. "Can I ask what brought this on?"

Scott made a noncommittal noise in the back of throat, still working on drinking.

Boyd looked around the office, and then spotted Lydia. "Ah," he said. He pulled the drink back from Scott, even though he wasn't exactly finished with it. "No more for you, at least not right now. I thought you and Lydia broke up?"

"We did, completely did, that's over. Well," Scott hedged. He weakly reached out for the drink again, which Boyd held out of his reach.

"Well? There's a well now? I remember you guys having sex but I thought that was it."

"No! There was...dating. Sort of. Until—"

"Until you found out she was sleeping with Jackson, that's right," Boyd said, a tone of recognition in his voice.

"I mean, I still love her—"

"You still love her? I can't do this." Boyd looked around the room again. "You need...oh, perfect. You need Erica. Reyes!" he called. He pulled Scott with him as he walked over to Erica. She turned around to face Boyd and Scott, ending the conversation she was having with one of her colleagues. Boyd kissed her on the cheek and walked away, leaving her to deal with Scott.

"Thanks, sweetie, leave me to deal with the lovesick Scott," she murmured, even though Boyd couldn't hear her. She licked her lips and smiled. "Scott, what is it? Lydia?"

Scott made a gesture with his hands as if to say, "Who else?" "I still love her, Erica."

"Well of course you do, she's hotter than the son. I may be with and in love with Boyd forever and always, but I remember my college years, Scott," she said to his baffled look. "She's hotter than about all of my sorority."

"Yeah, but I bet your sisters have a much better personality than her," Scott muttered. He ignored Erica's exclamation of, "That's a start!" and said, "No matter what I do, no matter what I write, no matter who I see, it's always Lydia. Lydia, Lydia, Lydia."

"You see other people then."

"No." Scott put his head in his hands. "Oh God, I'm pathetic."

Erica bit her cheek and placed a comforting hand on Scott's shoulder. "You're not," she began, then paused. "Okay, maybe a little. But I wouldn't exactly say you're pathetic just more of...blinded by your love for Lydia Martin."

He pulled his head out of his hands. "You mean I'm pathetic."

"...Yes."

Scott groaned and buried his head again. This was what he meant. The Lydia thing was getting out of hand. It needed to stop. It needed to just...evaporate, into thin air. Even though Scott knew that wasn't how love worked. Love was weird, love was fickle. Love—

"Hello, Scott."

Shit. Shit, holy mother of Earth, that was Lydia's voice. Which then continued to say, "Hello, Erica."

"Hey, Lyds," Erica replied. Scott elbowed her, head still in his hands. She grunted, then said, "You know, I'm going to go find Boyd. The man is hopeless without me, but, of course, you know how men are." The girls laughed, and Scott managed to raise his head from his hands and tried to smooth his hair a bit. He smiled at Erica's retreating backside, and turned his head to Lydia. Who looked even more stunning up close. His smile widened.

"Hello, Scott," she said again, that small, private smile that she saved for him in place.

"Hey. Hi. How-how are you? How's the party?" Scott mentally face palmed. He should have just stopped when he was ahead, which was, "Hey."

Lydia's smile widened. "I'm wonderful, Scott, and the party seems to be amicable. How are you?"

"Good." Scott nodded. Lydia nodded with him, her lips twitching as if she wanted to laugh. _Oh holy God, why did I say _good_?_ "You can laugh at me, you know," Scott said.

Lydia let out a little giggle, stifled behind her hand. "I'm not laughing at you, I promise. You're just very adorable, sweetie." She sighed. "Oh, this holiday just makes me feel so...happy. You know?"

"Definitely."

"Can I see the article you wrote today?" she asked after a moment. "I can only imagine that it's brilliant."

"Ah, ah, ah, not as brilliant as yours. I read it, and that one line: 'The onrushing stripping of dignity and thought from British lives.' Wonderful."

Lydia flushed lightly, following Scott into his office. "Thank you," she said.

Scott sat down and pulled up the article he had been working on, only to realize it was the one in which he was talking about unrequited love. Shit. "Uh," he stalled. He closed out of everything and shut his computer down. "I guess, uh, I guess my computer got a little overheated. Had to shut it down. Maybe another time?" he suggested. Lydia nodded and then perked up. Scott made a, "What is it?" face.

"I have a Christmas present for you!"

Everything was working out. Lydia had a gift for him. He had a gift for her. They'd exchange and share a pre-Christmas kiss. It was perfect. It was wonderful. It was all he ever wanted. "That's so convenient," he said, reaching into his drawer, "because I have one for you. Ha!" He pulled it out and presented it to her.

Lydia's smile dimmed. "Oh. I don't...I don't actually have it on me, Scott. I believe it's at home. But," she rushed to say, "you can believe I'll get it to you as soon as possible."

He shrugged, covering up how stupid he actually felt. "Here, just...have yours, then," he said, handing off the present. "Remember last Christmas, we exchanged gifts in March. This is good. We're getting...better." He was pathetic. Yeah, Lydia 'had' a present for him that she 'left at home.' He couldn't believe how idiotic he was being. Shit.

He distantly heard Lydia gasp, too wrapped up in his thoughts. "Scott, where did you—"

"Oh, um, it was just. I found it in that old bookstore we went to, remember?"

Lydia looked up at him. "Yes. But, Scott, this is first edition, I—"

"Happy Christmas, Lydia." She beamed at him, cradling the book. Okay, so maybe he wasn't totally pathetic. "I wanted to ask you—"

He was interrupted by his boss asking for everyone's attention, back out in the main room. "Well, first of all, a very happy Christmas to every one of you," he was saying as Scott and Lydia made their way out of Scott's office. Lydia offered Scott a parting smile before she walked into the crowd. Scott made his way to Erica and Boyd, who gave him questioning looks. He waved them off and looked to his boss.

"Now, we're not officially closed, as you very well know. But we are going to try and get by this week. with a smaller-than-normal staff," he continued. "Now, before some of you rush off on holiday, I do have one rather important announcement."

Scott perked up. An announcement before Christmas holiday meant either someone was getting a raise or someone was getting fired.

"Now, can I have our own Lydia Martin and Jackson Whittemore up here with me, if you please. Now, these two would like to make the announcement themselves, so, go on."

Lydia and Jackson looked at one another before wide grins broke out on their faces. "Oh no," Scott whispered. Erica moved from next to Boyd to right behind Scott, grasping both his shoulders as if to comfort him. But if what was about to happen that Scott thought was about to happen, nothing, absolutely nothing, could comfort him.

"We're engaged!" Lydia squealed, throwing up her hand. Everyone around them clapped, except for the trio. Jackson made some stupid, off-handed comment about his suit that got everyone laughing, but Scott was ready to curl up into a ball, in a hole and just die.

"Can you two, uh, help me? Get me out of here," he added when neither Erica nor Boyd moved. Both of them quickly flanked him and quickly escorted him out of the office. They all stepped outside, but Scott walked ahead of them, heading straight for a lamp post—that he then kicked. He cried out in frustration, but mostly pain as that actually really hurt.

Erica walked up to him and grabbed his arm. "Come on, we're going to the bar. You need to get drunk." Scott just nodded, letting Erica and Boyd lead him to the nearest bar.

The bar was warm, but the beer was warmer and soon Scott almost couldn't quite remember how beautiful Lydia was. He complimented Erica's cleavage once, which resulted in a glower from Boyd, but peels of laughter from Erica.

It was also when they decided it was time for Scott to go home and pass out.

After the taxi dropped him off, Scott walked into his house, kicked off his boots, and then went upstairs to collapse on his bed, sobbing. He wasn't going to sleep. He had to drink so much water to make up for tonight.

He was wrong. He really was terribly pathetic.

* * *

Tada! Kind of short, I know, sorry about that. The way I'm writing this, it seems each chapter is going to change between Scott and Stiles. I'm really following to movie on this one. If you want to check up on my progress (or just say hey or if you just want it), my tumblr is adelaidebabe. Hopefully this isn't half bad, and people are actually interested.

Thanks for reading! Stay tuned!


	2. Chapter 2

"Stiles. Stiles! Look, can I just say again: I didn't sleep with him."

Stiles laughed humorlessly, and threw a shoe at Danny's head, who then ducked. "Right, because _everyone_ in your office needs to work until three in the morning?! Oh, wait, no," Stiles laughed again, chucking the other shoe, "just you and your fucking _receptionist_ need to work until three."

Stiles was currently working on cleaning out every piece of clothing that was Danny's out of his closet. It was slow going, with Danny standing right behind him the whole time. Which was why he had taken to throwing some of the material objects at his boyfriend—ex boyfriend—which was also just a nice, therapeutic way for him to release his anger.

"We were all working late," Danny continued. "Ethan just wanted to hang out with us, you know, play the work game."

"Okay. Fine," Stiles said. He crossed his arms as he turned his back to the closet, another shoe in hand. "Then swear it. Swear on my life that you didn't sleep with him."

"Stiles—"

"_Swear_ it, Danny."

The two of them stared at each other, neither one breaking eye contact or the silence. Stiles knew Danny wouldn't lie. He'd tiptoe around the truth, avoid actually saying any lies or incriminating himself. The fact that Danny was taking so long to respond was answer enough for Stiles. But, dammit, he needed it confirmed.

Danny sighed. "Stiles, I'm not going to—"

"Ugh!" Stiles exclaimed, throwing the shoe. "God, how many times did it _happen_, Danny? See, this is why I said we shouldn't get married, even after Prop 8 was overturned. This is why I told you to keep your house. Because I fucking _knew_ it!" He turned back around and began digging through the closet with renewed vigor.

Danny stepped closer to Stiles, and said, "Okay, first of all, calm down, please. Because, and I'll say it again: I. Did. Not. Sleep. With Ethan. And secondly, we've had problems for over a year, Stiles, no matter how much you ignore them, problems don't just go away!"

"Problems?! What problems?" Stiles turned back around. "Oh, you mean when you judge me for working late, while you're allowed to work until three in the morning, no questions asked?!"

"Stiles, you brought your work home with you! You never stop working. You have a cutting room built into your house." Stiles scoffed. "_You never stop working_."

"I don't have to listen to this," Stiles muttered, sidestepping Danny, out of the room and into the hallway.

He began walking down the stairs while Danny continued to talk, walking behind him. "And don't get me started on the sex, Stiles, because I can't remember the last time we had it!"

"Oh please," Stiles scoffed. He reached the bottom of the stairs turned around to face Danny. "No one has time for sex."

"That's not entirely true."

"Oh my God! You most definitely slept with Ethan! Oh my God!" Stiles throw his hands up and stalked over to the front door. He threw it open, gesturing with his hand for Danny to get out.

"Stiles—"

"No, you seriously have to get out. You need to leave. Now." He groaned and pulled at his hair. "You know what I think, Danny, what I honestly, actually think: I think you never loved me."

"Oh, come on."

"No, I think you loved the idea of me, the idea of you and me together. The guy who composes music and the guy who edits trailers. A total match, right? A match made right in fucking Hollywood. We should have worked, is what you're thinking, and so you kept trying. And when you just couldn't take it anymore, you had sex with you fucking receptionist!" Stiles pulled at his hair again. "Then you thought, oh yeah. This'll all work out. Stiles and I'll get married, but I'll keep the affair with my receptionist so I don't get lonely because it's _all_ Stiles' fault that this relationship isn't working. Well, you know what Danny? Fuck you!" Stiles grabbed Danny's arm and used as much force as he could to push him out of his house. He slammed the door on Danny's surprised face.

"Look, I did the best I could, Stiles, is anyone good enough for that job?" Danny yelled through the door. "No one else can quite follow what you're saying when you just...spew words, but I can!"

Stiles groaned again, and kicked his door. He stormed up the stairs, ignoring every shouted thing Danny was trying to yell through the door. "You know you do this, right? I mean, you screw up every relationship you've ever been in. It's what you do. You didn't really wanna be a couple! You resist it in your own way!"

Stiles stormed to the balcony attached to his bedroom and looked down at Danny who was still yelling. "And it's hard to detect how you even do it because nobody's quite as smart as you! So you're hard to catch at it. But it always surfaces and this is what happens."

"Oh yeah?" Stiles called down. "What happens?"

He watched Danny back up until he could see Stiles from the ground. "Things end," he said simply. "The way you knew they would." Stiles rolled his eyes and groaned. "Look, Stiles," Danny continued, at much quieter tone. "You know how I feel about you. You drive me absolutely crazy, there's no one _like_ you." Stiles felt his resolve melting. Maybe Danny hadn't been lying. Maybe he really hadn't cheated on Stiles, maybe Ethan was just an overzealous receptionist, and nothing happened. Couples fight, Stiles determined, this was just another one of their fights. He was being stupid. Danny was being stupid. They were both being stupid, headstrong idiots.

Stiles opened his mouth, ready to apologize, when Danny said, "You just don't want to be what _I_ need."

"What." All the thoughts Stiles built up in his head crashed down around him. Danny was _still_ blaming him. Stiles was so wrong, so far from being right; this wasn't just another one of their fights, this was _the_ fight, the concluding fight. This fight wouldn't end with them apologizing to each other and then quick, make up sex. This fight would end in a break up.

Surprisingly, that thought wasn't unwelcome. He was ready for this, Stiles was ready to move on with his life, without Danny.

He needed this.

"You know," Stiles began. "You know I would never cheat on you under any conditions."

"And neither would I!"

Stiles began pacing on his balcony. "Danny, I just. I can't. It's over. This is it, the end, no more, finito." He began to pull at his hair again and then consciously made himself stop. "Look at this! You're going to make me lose my hair before I'm even thirty!"

"Stiles, look at you. Look at me. I'm stuck down here, practically distraught over this, and you're worried about your hair! You're breaking up with me and you're not even the least bit upset, not a tear in sight." Danny paused. "That has got to mean something, Stiles."

Stiles paused. He thought about biting back his words, but instead said, "It really bothers you _so_ much that I can't cry, doesn't it?" Stiles ran a hand through his hair. "Seriously, Danny, we're done. I'll send you your stuff."

"Fine."

"Wait." Stiles paused. If this really was it, then he needed to know. He had to ask one last time. And since they were over, Danny had no reason to lie. "Now's the time to be honest. Did you sleep with Ethan?" Danny groaned. "No, I'm serious, Danny! If this is it, this is the end, then I deserve to know. So just tell me, get it over with, put me out of my misery, _please_."

"Okay!" Danny sighed. "Yes, fine I slept with Ethan, I've been sleeping with Ethan, the kid's in love with me. Are you happy now? I told you the truth."

"Oh. My God," Stiles muttered, storming back into his room. "That lying, cheating, son of a. Ugh!" He stormed down the stairs, continuously muttering to himself. He threw open the front door, stormed up to Danny, and jabbed a finger in his chest. "Did you say, am I happy now?!"

"I didn't—"

"No, no, no. God, you know what, Danny? In the world of love, not that I'm an expert, cheating does not seem like an acceptable thing. Ever!"

"No matter what you think, Stiles, and I know you have a very high opinion of yourself—this isn't all me."

"Really."

"So when you're not in such a rage, I think you'll see that too," Danny finished. And then the bastard even had the gall to smile that was a bit too close to smug for Stiles' liking. So he did the only thing he could think of. He reared back his right hand, and delivered a strong right hook to Danny's jaw. _Fuck_, he thought, shaking out his hand. Well, having the Sheriff of a small town for a father resulted in at least one good thing: Stiles knew how to hit properly.

He stormed back into his house, ignoring Danny sprawled on his back, a hand holding his jaw. Stiles slammed his front door shut again and muttered, "Ow," gently massaging his knuckles. "I punched him. I can't believe I punched him. I actually freaking _punched_ him."

"Um, Stiles?" a hesitant voice called.

Stiles spun around, still massaging his knuckles. "Oh, Heather, hey."

The girl smiled weakly. "Is it—is it a bad time?"

"What? No. No, no, no, never a bad time. It's always a good time, what's up?"

"Oh, it's just. Matt needs you. You have to approve the final trailer."

"Right, yeah, right," Stiles mumbled, following Heather through his house into his cutting room. Matt waved at him from the chair he was sitting in, ready to start the trailer whenever Stiles was ready. He sat down, and then gave the okay, settling in, hoping—praying—that he would be able to easily approve this trailer and then he wouldn't have to think about this movie ever again.

Not that it was a bad movie, just that Stiles was beginning to think he needed a break. He didn't take breaks. But after this...ordeal with Danny, with Stiles completely losing his cool, he figured he could break his rules just this once, and take a break. If anyone needed it, it was him.

After the trailer finished, both Matt and Heather turned to Stiles with expectant grins on their faces. Stiles smiled back at them. "Yes, that was perfect. Exactly what I was looking for. Absolutely perfect." He nods as Heather lightly punches Matt's shoulder. The two begin to talk amongst themselves before Stiles interrupts with, "You know, I think we should all take a few weeks off."

Both Matt and Heather stop mid-conversation and stare at Stiles. "What?" he asks, beginning to feel self-conscious.

"You always say that this is our busiest time," Heather says meekly.

"And you never take work off," Matt adds.

"Yeah, well, I need a break. And if I'm taking a break, it only makes sense that you two take a break as well." Stiles pauses. "I just. I need time away. I need peace and quiet—or...whatever it is that people go away for. I want to read a book, not a magazine, an actual book. I keep reading these book reviews and buying these books, but I never read them. I want to get away from the fact that Danny was fucking his receptionist because I wasn't good enough!" Stiles finishes.

Heather has her mouth open, not entirely sure what to say, or how to proceed.

Stiles sighs. "Oh my God, see? This is what I mean. I need a break."

xXx

After Stiles dismissed Matt and Heather, assuring both of them that, yes, he meant it, it was time for a break, and that he was not going crazy, he was absolutely fine.

Okay, so the latter was slightly pushing it, because he wasn't absolutely fine, but he wasn't going crazy. Not yet, at least, hence why he had to get away. Get away from L.A. and its toxic air.

He just couldn't believe Danny cheated on him—and had been cheating on him. Yes, Stiles knew that Danny hadn't been wrong, things had been weird between them for a while. But he hadn't expected him to cheat on him! It was six years, down the drain. Six years of Stiles' life _gone_. Six years he wasted on Danny, wondering if maybe he had been wrong and they should get married as soon was Prop 8 was repealed. But he still didn't, and finally he had the solid proof as to _why_.

Stiles sat at his computer and sighed, running his hands through his hair again. "I'm overdue for a vacation," he muttered. He thought about going back home to Beacon Hills, seeing his dad and the other locals. But he dismissed that idea as soon as it popped in his head; going home would make his dad worry about him. And his dad had to worry about _himself_, not Stiles. So, Beacon Hills, vetoed. He opened up Chrome, going straight to Google and typed, "Vacation spots."

* * *

Viola! Chapter two, just about the same length as chapter one. Okay, I believe next chapter will actually be both of them, starting on Scott and then going to Stiles. Hopefully I'll finish the next chapter as quickly as I finished the first two?

Aaand, once again, my tumblr is adelaidebabe-because I'm all about self promotion. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Trigger warning!** It's not much, but if you've seen the movie, then you know that (through a lapse of judgment) Iris (aka Scott in my fic) kind of begins to inhale gas as a way to kill herself. In the fic, Scott never actually gets to that point, but there are _thoughts_. Please be aware and careful if this in any way can trigger you.

* * *

Scott hadn't stopped sobbing. He tried, he really did, because he had to feed Duke and he needed to drink water, otherwise he'd be faced with the worst hangover of hangovers tomorrow. But he just couldn't make himself get off his bed, where he was clutching one his pillows, sobbing.

He had known that Lydia didn't love him. That was actually one of the things he was absolutely positive about Lydia: she didn't seem to have the capacity to love. He had just really convinced himself that she could change, that he could change her. Especially once she saw his Christmas present! Though she was already engaged at that point. She was probably laughing about him in her mind. Ha, ha, poor Scott McCall-Hale, hopeless in love with a heartless, red-haired Goddess.

He was so pathetic.

Okay, no, that's it. He wasn't going to mope any longer. He was going to feed Duke and he was going to make tea. He would rehydrate himself so his head didn't feel like it was spinning off and then he would think about drowning himself.

Wait, no, that's backsliding, that was the opposite of what he wanted.

Scott sat up slowly and wiped at his cheeks. He blinked blearily. God, he really needed some water. He stumbled his way downstairs, moaning when he reached the bottom, one hand instantly going to his temple. He made his way to kitchen, bypassing Duke who barked at him. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know," Scott said. "Just hold on." He filled up Duke's food and water bowl, then downed a glass of water before grabbing his tea kettle. He filled it with water, then sat it down next to the stove. He turned on the gas and grabbed a match, getting ready to light it.

Before he did, though, Scott stared at his stove and just thought about the fact that inhaling that gas now would be so much easier than trying to down himself later. Right? He began to lean down, matches and tea forgotten, ready to take an inhale.

His laptop on the table bleeped.

"What am doing?" he hissed, turning off his stove. "Fuck, dammit, low point, low point." He walked over to the window above his sink and opened in, welcoming the winter air. He breathed deep, pouring another glass of water. He slowly nursed the water while getting chilled by the winter air, but it was clearing his head—which was exactly what he needed right then.

His laptop bleeped again. Oh, right.

Scott made his way to his table and sat down, Duke immediately coming over and resting his head on Scott's leg. Scott petted him absentmindedly, while he woke up his computer, instantly reading what had made his computer bleep.

**BatmannRobin: I'm interested in renting your house.**

**BatmannRobin: I'm wondering if your house is available this Christmas.**

**BatmannRobin: Because if it is, you'd be a real lifesaver.**

Scott completely blanked for a moment, before remembering the time—oh God, quite a few months ago—that Derek had practically forced him to sign up for this home-exchange thing, ranting that Scott needed to take a break from work.

Needless to say, Scott had forgotten about the whole thing as soon as he signed up.

**BatmannRobin: I know it's late asking, but if you're interested at all, please contact me.**

This was it, Scott decided. This was actually what he needed. He needed to get away. Being in a new place, new city, maybe even new country, would distract him from his Lydia drama.

**Scottyohbotty: I'm very interested, but my house is only available for home-exchange.**

**Scottyohbotty: We switch houses, cars, everything. I haven't done it before, but a few of my friends have.**

Scott paused before asking, **Where are you?**

"Please say far away, please be another country," he whispered, staring at his screen. It bleeped right when another messaged showed up.

**BatmannRobin: L.A.**

**Scottyohbotty: I've ever been there, though I've always wanted to go.**

**Scottyohbotty: I'm Scott, by the way.**

"I'm very normal," he mumbled to himself. "Neat freak, healthy, non-smoker." He sighed. "Single."

**BatmannRobin: I'm Stiles and, no, that's not actually my birth name.**

**BatmannRobin: My birth name is just a lot more difficult to spell, let alone say.**

**Scottyohbotty: Hi.**

_Oh God_, Scott thought. _Why did I just say hi?_

**Scottyohbotty: What does your house look like?**

**BatmannRobin: It's nice, but a little bigger than yours.**

**BatmannRobin: Yours looks like it's just what I need, though.**

Scott was about to type back a doubtful remark, when Stiles sent another message.

**BatmannRobin: Can I ask you one thing?**

**BatmannRobin: Well. Two things, actually.**

**Scottyohbotty: Of course.**

**BatmannRobin: I feel like I have to let you know, and make sure it's not a problem.**

Scott gnawed on his lip, slightly worried. Stiles wasn't about to confess to being a serial killer, was he? A very special killer, who switched houses with unsuspecting folk and then murdered everyone in the foreign town.

He was letting his mind wander. That couldn't be possible. And if it was, well, Stiles wouldn't admit to it outright, would he.

**BatmannRobin: I'm gay.**

Scott let loose the breath he hadn't even realized he was holding.

**Scottyohbotty: You had me worried there, I thought you were a serial killer or something.**

**Scottyohbotty: Anyway, no, no problem. Don't even worry about it.**

**BatmannRobin: Oh, well, in that case.**

**BatmannRobin: Are there any...men in your town?**

Scott thought about it. There was, maybe, two guys within a mile radius, and both were straight and older than dirt. He thought about Derek, but his brother had no reason to stop by if Scott wasn't home. So hopefully Stiles was looking for an answer resembling no.

**Scottyohbotty: Zero.**

**BatmannRobin: When can I come?**

**Scottyohbotty: Tomorrow too soon?**

The was a pause. A long pause. Scott began to doubt himself and almost sent another message saying, **Kidding! Whenever, you know, in a week. When you're ready.** He himself was just ready for this vacation. Now that his mind was on it, it just seemed like the perfect idea. He hadn't meant to jump the gun, but it seemed like he might've actually freaked Stiles out with his over eagerness. But then Stiles replied.

**BatmannRobin: Tomorrow's perfect.**

Scott let out a sigh of relief and whooped to himself.

**Scottyohbotty: Okay.**

**Scottyohbotty: Then we are on, for two weeks, starting tomorrow.**

**BatmannRobin: I'm in. Thank you so much, Scott.**

**Scottyohbotty: Thank you as well, Stiles.**

They exchanged numbers just in case and then Scott closed his laptop. He whooped to himself again. Duke caught on to his excitement and started jumping up, barking. Scott laughed and started baby talking him, scratching him behind the ears. He made a mental note to text Stiles and let him know that he had a dog. _Can't believe I forgot to mention that_, he thought.

Scott pushed away from the table, feeling lighter, and grabbed his cell, shooting off a text to Stiles. Then he called his brother.

"It's Derek. I must be busy so just leave me you information and I'll get back to you."

"Hey, Derek, it's Scott. Anyway, just call me back, okay? I have something to tell you, but I want to actually hear your reaction. Bye." He hung up, setting his phone back on his counter. He had a moment of serenity, before reality came crashing down on him. "I have to pack. I have to book a plane and I have to pack, and oh my God, how did I think leaving tomorrow would be a good idea?"

He rushed upstairs, then back downstairs to grab his laptop. He brought that back upstairs with him, setting it on his bed while he grabbed suitcases, opening them. Scott sighed and looked at Duke who had followed him upstairs. "Looks like I've got a lot to do, bud."

xXx

Scott couldn't believe that he was doing this. He was on a plane, running mostly on adrenaline and caffeine, trying his best not to freak out. He didn't do things like this, spur of the moment decisions—like getting on a plane and flying half way around the world to live in a stranger's house. What was he thinking? He couldn't do this! His brother still hadn't gotten back to him and what if that was because he was in trouble? Though, Scott reasoned, how much trouble could a secondary history teacher get into?

Immediately, improbable situations that Derek could have found himself in flooded Scott's brain and he had to take several deep breathes to try to erase all the negativity. Though, he supposed he should check his phone one last time before turning it off.

**One New Message from Lydia Martin**

Scott stopped breathing. He forced himself to look away from his phone and take deep, even breaths. Sighing, he closed his eyes, and then opened them to open Lydia's message.

**I can't believe you're leaving! First vacation in four years is a turning point, Scott. How do I reach you if I need to?**

He gathered his resolve before typing, **Lydia. We both know I need to fall out of love with you. It would be great if you would let me try. **He sent the message.

xXx

When Stiles said his house was a little bit bigger than Scott's, he didn't realize that Stiles had meant that his house was a literal mansion. There was a gate with a code, actual decor around the house—as if it was done by an interior designer. There was a pool, a state of the art kitchen, a home theater with any movie made under the sun, an exercise studio. Scott just couldn't believe that someone would give this up! Don't get him wrong, he loved his little cottage, he really did, but this house—this mansion. It was a dream come true.

He also couldn't believe that it was practically his for a whole two weeks.

Venturing upstairs, Scott found the bedroom. And the bed, the _bed_, was king-sized, looking freshly made. Ignoring the fact that he was a grown adult, he launched himself onto the bed, relaxing instantly. A nap was something he definitely needed and this seemed like just the bed to do it on.

He could unpack later.

—

Stiles had this...thing. It wasn't a _thing_-thing, it was just that, sometimes, while he was making huge life decisions—like taking off at least two weeks of working and then traveling all the way to London—that his brain would suddenly make his life into a movie trailer.

So when he relaxed in his chair on his flight—first class of course; more privacy—suddenly, he could here the trailer guy's voice. He groaned and closed his eyes, trying to not pay attention.

**Stiles Stilinski is proud to present...his life.**

**He had it all: the job, the house, the guy. This holiday season, find out what Stiles doesn't have.**

His mind even supplied the catchy trailer music.

That was why he needed a vacation. His job was invading his brain and creating trailers about his life. If he got away, took a break, that would come to an end. Right?

Stiles did his best to fall asleep on the plane, knowing he was in for a world of jet lag no matter what.

xXx

"Sir? Sir?" The driver spoke up a bit. "Sir?"

"Yeah!" Stiles sat up, flailing his arms. "Yeah, sorry, sorry, I'm," he paused, yawning, "I'm awake."

"We're here."

"Thanks," Stiles said. He rubbed his eyes and then looked out the window. Then he sighed. He rolled down the window, and next to his was...a graveyard. "This can't be it."

"Oh, no," the driver said. "It's just down that lane. But, the thing is, I'll never be able to turn this around at the other end. Think you can, uh, make it from here?"

Stiles' eyes widened comically. "Um," he said intelligently. "_No_."

The driver popped the trunk and then looked at Stiles expectantly. Stiles stared at the driver before dragging himself out of the backseat, pulling his stuff with him. He grabbed his suitcase from the trunk and closed it, the driver taking off almost immediately. "You have got to be kidding me," he muttered. Nonetheless, he began his trek, walking through the in sneakers that were most definitely not equipped to deal with the snow.

Along the way, he came across a married couple with a dog. "You wouldn't happen to know where Rosehill Cottage is?" he asked.

The wife winced and then said, "Go right at the bridge, and then just keep going. Way down there." She gestured with her hand.

"Thank you." He walked a bit and then glanced behind him. "Way down there," he mumbled. "Great, I might freeze out here before I actually make it to the house."

Eventually, he came across a cottage, but not sure if it was the right one. He cleared off the snow on the sign, revealing **Rosehill Cottage**.

"Here," he sighed. "Thank freaking God."

Entering the house, his first thought was how close quarters it was. It was well lived in, no doubt about that. There were books and magazines everywhere, blankets and pillows on the couch. He began unpacking his clothes, fitting them into Scott's closet. He pushed his suitcase under the bed, and stared around the room. Really close quarters.

"Now what?" He walked back downstairs, heading into the kitchen. He looked through Scott cabinets, making mental notes about what he needed to buy. "Oh my God." Stiles groaned and leaned his head back. "I'm going to have to drive wrong."

* * *

And chapter three! I predict that (hopefully) Saturday is when chapter four will be up. Also, in the movie, they use their actual names instead of screen names for the conversation they have via the home exchange site, but I thought that was weird because they end up introducing themselves. So I gave Scott and Stiles screen names!

Self promotion: my tumblr is adelaidebabe. Come talk to me if you want! Thanks for reading, loves!


	4. Chapter 4

Slight trigger warning for panic attacks. Stiles gets a small one (and calms himself down) while he's driving. Just beware, lovelies.

* * *

To say Stiles was nervous about driving on the wrong side of the road, on the wrong side of the car, would be an understatement. During the process of deicing the car and then turning on the heat (after he accidentally got into the passenger seat, that is), he kept trying to convince himself that maybe he didn't need to go to town. Truth be told, Scott didn't stock up on Stiles' favorite brand of alcohol, and half the food in the house wasn't quite up to par with what Stiles usually ate. If Stiles was going to be spending just about all of vacation holed up in a cottage away from civilization, then he needed the right kind of beer.

Stiles got behind the wheel, but only after he sat in the passenger seat first. Shutting the car door, he sighed, and coached himself under his breath. "Alright, Stiles, you can do this. You can totally do this!"

He pulled out of the driveway and drove off, correcting himself to drive in the left lane—"The fucking wrong lane," he muttered.

Along the way, he finally started to believe he actually was getting the hang of it. "Just gotta stay focused—oh my God, that's a car, please don't hit me, oh my God!" Stiles winced and swerved a bit more than was necessary into the shoulder of the road. He sighed when the car passed. "Fuck, I hate thi—oh my G—not again!" he nearly wailed, this time a truck bypassing him. He nearly forgot to breath but then almost began to hyperventilate when he did take in a deep breath. He pulled the car over and shut her down, his head instantly bowing. _No, c'mon_, he thought, trying to steady his breathing. He hadn't had a panic attack since he was a teenager; there was absolutely no reason for him to have one now.

Well, despite the fact that he was in a completely new country and had to drive on the wrong side of the road and he was worried about dying in a crash collision.

When his breathing sped up again, Stiles forced a hand to his chest to feel his pounding heart. He began counting backwards in his head, willing to slow his heart and his breathing. Around seventy-three he could breathe normally, and around forty-nine his heart seemed to have calmed down as well. Stiles sat up and thumped his head back against the seat. "God, I need a drink," he mumbled. He started the car back up, and trying to keep his mind preoccupied so that he didn't through himself into another panic attack.

He pulled up to the curb of the first shop he spotted. From he could see, it looked like he would be a grocery store, if a bit more homey. Stepping inside, he made a beeline for the alcohol section, stocking up because he was pretty damn sure he wasn't going to make this drive again. Then he shopped around a bit, buying his usual as well as some sweets. Then he went back through and doubled everything he had picked up—some things, tripled—just to be completely positive he wouldn't have to drive again.

The cashier ringing up his stuff looked at the wide expanse and laughed to herself. "Oh," she said. "Someone's having a party tonight."

Stiles laughed with her. "Oh, yeah," he said conspiratorially, winking. Yet in his head, he kept reminding himself what a loser he was. This trip was going to turn him into a hermit.

Back at the cottage, Stiles packed everything away, grabbing a case of his beer and toting it upstairs with him. He reclined back on the bed, beer in hand, and Duke jumped up on the bed with him. Stiles surfed through the stations a bit, shivering and wishing he had started the fire in the fire place. He landed on a random movie and began watching through hooded eyes, slowly nursing his beer.

The movie cut to commercial, and just like that, Stiles saw the trailer he had just approved a day ago on the TV. He sat up, eyes glued to the screen. "Holy shit," he muttered, a grin breaking out. He was totally right to approve that trailer, because that one was a masterpiece. He turned his head to Duke and said, "That was the most badass trailer I have ever seen, and my team had edited it."

Duke cocked his head at Stiles, as if he was trying to understand him, before settling back down.

"I'm talking to a dog," Stiles said to the air. He pushed the blankets off him, deciding it had to be the cold that was making him delirious, and going downstairs to start the fire. Duke trailed after him.

The fire warmed him up considerably, so he sat down in front of it, Duke coming to lay half on top of him almost immediately. Stiles scratched behind the dog's ears, and continued to nurse his beer, watching the fire pop.

—

After sleeping in the most comfortable bed known to man, Scott was determined to take advantage of everything Stiles' house had to offer.

Starting with the high powered jet showing, continuing on with the swimming pool. He hadn't gone swimming in _years_. Not since he and Derek were teenagers, he believed, Derek forced to bring his tag-along little brother to his friend's party. Scott had moped the whole time, though, because the party was stupid and Derek wouldn't pay attention to him, too busy flirting with some girl.

Though when some jerkoff decided it would be funny to throw Scott into the pool, Derek made sure to threaten the guy into oblivion. And then, because he really was an awesome brother, he dove into the pool too, fully clothed, just so Scott wouldn't be alone.

Scott finished his lap and grinned at the memory, dunking himself underwater one last time before getting out. He dried off and headed back into the house, planning on spending the next few hours in the home theater. He was sure there was some movie that he had seen before and wouldn't mind watching again. Scanning his choices, towel wrapped around his shoulders, he glanced toward the DVD player, only to look back and full on gape. It wasn't just a DVD player. There was a stereo too, too many knobs and dials for Scott to wrap his head around.

The phone began to ring before he could even _try_ to figure it out. He glanced on the caller ID section of the phone, reading **Front Gate**. "Oh no," he muttered, sitting on the couch next to it. "Gate?!" He felt slightly panicked, unsure of what to do. He found a huge binder of codes, skimming through, trying to find what he needed. He picked up the phone and tried, "Hello? Hello?" a couple of times, before looking through the codes again, and pressing them on the phone keypad. "Hello?" he said again. "Can you hear me?"

"Yes," a female voice came through. "It's Allison. Stiles?"

"Oh, oh, no, sorry," Scott said. He kept flipping through the codes, trying to figure out how to open the gate. "Stiles isn't here, I'm afraid. I'm trying—I'm trying to figure out how to open the—the gate. Oh, fuck," he muttered. Then he covered his mouth.

"Very nice," Allison's voice said.

"Oh my—if you heard that, I'm sorry." Scott hung up the phone, unable to believe that he had made such an ass of himself so quickly. He groaned and then made his way to the front door, opening it to reveal what he assumed was Allison and her car.

"Hi!" Scott said. Words began rushing out of his mouth, overriding Allison's, "Hi." "I'm so sorry, I'm new at the gate thing, I've never had a gate before."

Allison smiled and Scott was almost immediately distracted by her dimples. "It's okay," she said. "It was pretty funny. Um, I'm Allison, I'm friends with Danny."

"Danny—?"

"Stiles' ex..."

"Oh, right, him. The cheating ex," Scott added, already feeling indigent on Stiles' behalf.

Allison nodded, a small laugh escaping her. "That'd be him. Do you—do you know when Stiles will be back? I'm supposed to pick up some of Danny's things," she explained.

"Actually," Scott said, clapping his hands, "Stiles is in England, on holiday. I'm staying here..." he trailed off, noticing an eyelash on Allison's cheek.

"Are you okay?" she asked, her face instantly growing concerned.

"No, I mean, yeah, yeah I'm fine. It's just." He gestured to her face. "You have an eyelash."

She flushed slightly, wiping at the wrong cheek. "Gone?"

"No, um, let—let me." Scott reached a hand up and gently cradled Allison's cheek, using his thumb to wipe at the eyelash. Her flush deepened. "There," he said, lifting up his hand to show her the eyelash. "Make a wish?"

Allison's eyes met his directly. Scott was almost positive that he stopped breathing, and then she blew lightly on his thumb, her eyes closing as she made a wish.

"There," she said quietly, eyes opening. A sudden gust of wind blew, throwing Allison's hair into her face. Brushing it out, she said, "Santa Anas."

"Pardon."

"The wind," she clarified. "It's what makes it so warm this time of year." She cleared her throat and leaned in conspiratorially. "Legend has it, when the Santa Anas blow, all bets are off. Anything can happen."

Scott wanted to take that as a sign. He lived for signs. Stiles practically begging to switch houses was a sign, Allison stopping by was a sign, her eyelash was a sigh, this Santa Ana wind was a sign. It had to be. This was it, this was another one of those pivotal moments in his life. Allison seemed like a complete opposite of Lydia, full of happiness and smiles, rather than indifference and calculated looks. He'd be stupid to let her pass him by.

And yet.

Scott said, "So you needed to—"

"Pick up Danny's laptop," Allison finished, nodding. "We're friends and he asked me for a favor."

Scott nodded, about to ask Allison if she wanted to wait while he called Stiles or his assistant, until he noticed another person getting out of Allison's car. He hadn't even noticed that there was someone else _in_ the car. The boy was tall, with curly hair.

Allison glanced behind herself and smiled. "This is Isaac, my boyfriend," she introduced.

"Scott," he said, trying to pretend like all the future life plans he had just made up in his mind about him and Allison weren't crashing down around him.

Isaac nodded at him and then turned to Allison. "Are you ready?"

She nodded. "Yeah. Scott, I'll just...I'll just stop by tomorrow, okay?"

Scott nodded. He knew if he let himself think about it, his cheeks would glow red with embarrassment. He watched them get back into the car and drive off. He groaned, grabbing the towel still around his shoulders and stuffing his face into it. That was another one of his problems. When he began to fall, he fell fast. He stomped back into the house, letting loose another loud groan.

—

Stiles couldn't sit and watch the fire pop forever. Eventually he grew restless, walking around the house, having staring contests with Duke. He tried reading a book, but his mind just wasn't there.

_Maybe I should just go back home_, he thought. He set the book down and walked upstairs. He grabbed his suitcase from under the bed and began packing everything up. He was going home. This was a completely idiotic, impulsive plan that he should have never gone through with.

Fully packed, Stiles sat on the bed and thought about trying to sleep, but after a quick calculation, he realized it was only four in L.A.. It would be nearly impossible for him to fall asleep. But if he wanted to make sure he could make the flight he booked, he would have to try right? If he was fully rested, then he would be more likely to get up in the morning—meaning he wouldn't have to rush around, making sure that he didn't leave anything unpacked.

Someone knocked on the door, Duke going crazy. Stiles rushed downstairs and called, "Who is it?"

"It's me," a gruff voice answered. "Hurry up, it's freezing out here."

"Who are you?"

"Scott, dammit, open the door, or I am going to take a leak on—" Stiles rushed to open the door, getting face to face with—holy shit—possibly one of the most attractive human beings he had ever seen.

"You're not Scott," the stranger said. The he blinked and sighed. "Or you are and I am much drunker than I realized." Stiles nodded at him, keeping the door mostly closed in case he had to slam it in Mr. Gorgeous' face. "I'm—for being..." The stranger trailed off, briefly closing his eyes. "I'm sorry for intruding, but actually, if you don't mind, if I could." He pointed behind Stiles.

Stiles glanced behind himself and said, "Oh, yeah, yeah, I'm—I'm sorry, yeah, let me just." Stepping out of the way, Stiles let him in, shutting the door behind him. Sighing he said, "I'm Stiles, by the way."

Mr. Gorgeous turned around. "That's not a real name."

Stiles cocked an eyebrow. "Right, that's why it's a nickname. And you are?"

"Derek, Scott's brother," he said slowly, as if the words pained him to get out. He gestured behind himself, to the bathroom. Stiles nodded and turned around.

_Brother_, he mused in his head. _Really attractive brother_. He began tousling his hair, trying to make it look tame, and slung his pajama bottoms lower. He needed to pull out all of the stops because, Goddammit, he would be an idiot if he just let Derek go.

"So, uh," Derek said, exiting the bathroom. "Scott, where—where is he?"

"He didn't tell you?" Stiles asked, running a hand through his hair.

"He could have, but I'm very far from sober right now, so I'm not remembering a lot."

"Oh. Right. He's in Los Angeles."

Derek froze, staring at Stiles. His eyebrows crinkled, and holy God how had Stiles not noticed those eyebrows. "That's not possible," Derek said. "Scott doesn't—he doesn't go anywhere."

Stiles pursed his lips, nodding. "Yeah, well, we have that in common." He laughed nervously. "He listed his house on a home-exchange website and—" Stiles stopped, Derek already nodding along.

At Stiles confused look, Derek said, "I made him do that a couple weeks ago. I didn't think he'd actually do it though. But, now that you say that, he did leave me a message. Never got back to him, though. Huh." Derek paused and then began walking over to the couch, stopping to glance at Stiles. He lifted an eyebrow, which Stiles then had to translate. _Can I sit down?_

At least, that was what Stiles was assuming Derek was asking, seeing as he was hovering over the couch but not actually sitting. So Stiles nodded and gestured with his hand. "Yeah, yeah, go ahead."

As Derek sat down, he groaned, a sound that went directly to Stiles' dick. He sighed and directed his thoughts elsewhere, not really wanting to pop a freaking boner in front of Scott's brother. He knew the dude would have to stay the night; there was no way Stiles was going to let a drunk man drive.

He observed Derek as he relaxed, craning his neck as if to crack it. Stiles found the action strangely arousing.

Wow. He and Danny really hadn't had sex for a while if Stiles was already having these thoughts.

He was screwed. In the bad way. Though if he was lucky, he'd be screwed in the good way too.

* * *

So this one is slightly (by about 200 words, give or take) longer than the other chapters. I contemplated waiting until the next chapter to bring Derek into the fold, but I just couldn't resist. Let me know what you think!


	5. Chapter 5

I'm baaaaaack! Yay! Okay, so, here is the actual chapter five (still not beta'd, therefore, all mistakes are mine). There is no Scott in this chapter, so maybe next chapter will be a Scott-centric chapter.

Oh, I realized I should probably warn you: Derek is ******most likely** going to come off OOC. I'm trying? But since I am following the movie as much as I can, there's only so much I can do. Alright, I believe that's it. Onward!

* * *

"I am sorry. About. Being here," Derek said haltingly.

Stiles glanced at Derek from the kitchen, where he was getting a glass of water for Derek. "Whatcha mean?" he asked. He filled up the glass with tap water and walked back into the living room, handing Derek the glass.

Derek accepted the glass and took a sip, closing his eyes. He sighed. "I'm supposed to be Scott's _older_ brother, and yet here I am. Drunk. Used to Scott taking me in for the night so I don't drive." He sighed again. "Scott also told me that I need to practice apologizing when I'm at fault, apparently, so. I'm sorry, again." He threw back the rest of the water in one gulp.

Stiles stifled a laugh. And a moan, watching Derek's Adam's apple work. Of course. Of course, of course, of _course_—he had to switch houses with someone who had sex on legs for a brother. A brother who consistently stayed over when he got drunk. Who was a really hot drunk. Though Stiles didn't even know what kind of body Derek had, as he had yet to take off his coat. But the imagination was a wonderful thing.

Shaking his head, Derek opened his eyes. "You weren't sleeping when I showed up, were you?"

_I was about to try_, Stiles thought. He said, "No, no, I was, um, packing. I've got a noon flight tomorrow, back home."

Derek's whole face seemed to scrunch together, his eyebrows meeting up. "When did you get here?"

"Oh, um." Stiles blew air out of his mouth, glancing at a watch-less wrist. "About six hours ago." Derek's face registered surprise, with a bit of repentance. He opened his mouth to say something, probably another apology, when Stiles beat him to it. "It's not. It's not England or anything. It's me. I haven't been myself, I'm not quite myself right now. I came here on a whim, a completely stupid whim. Honestly, I've never thought about anything less. It's very. Very unlike me." He paused, realizing he was rambling again.

Danny had complained about the rambling constantly. It was something Stiles couldn't help. He rambled since he learned how to talk. His mind seemed to jump quickly, and when he was talking it just became worse. The adderall helped, sure, but doses ran out eventually (meaning, after eight hours). If he wasn't doing things of absolute importance, he also tended to skip doses; when he was working, he would double up. He never took more than he needed, Stiles had learned that the hard way back in high school after countless all nighters.

But Derek wasn't looking at Stiles like he'd grown another head. He seemed to be able to follow along just fine, even with his alcohol addled brain. Or his alcohol addled brain made him just not care s much to try to follow along. Either way, Stiles calmed down some. "Do you. Do you want some more water?" Stiles asked, reaching out for Derek's glass.

Derek glanced down at the glass in his hand as if just noticing for the first time that he had emptied it. "Oh. Yes. Thank you." He handed the glass over. "Uh. Damn. I'm sorry, but I've completely blanked on your name."

Stiles fought back the twinge of annoyance he felt at that (_The dude's drunk, he can't be blamed._) and said, "Stiles. Weird nickname, remember?"

Derek nodded. "Right. Stiles. So," his voice trailed off when Stiles handed him his now refilled glass.

Walking back into the kitchen to get his own glass, Stiles prompted, "So?"

"Are you married?" Derek asked bluntly. Stiles froze, one hand on the sink. He heard Derek groan. "Sorry, I'm sorry. I'm not. I don't _do_ small talk. Anymore."

"Right." Stiles walked back into the living room and sat across from Derek. "But, um, no, I'm not married. Almost did get married, though, when Prop 8 overturned, but no. Wait, do you know what Prop 8 is?" he added. "Oh, shit, yeah. I'm, uh, I'm gay. Just so. Just so you know, dude, I mean I guess I understand if that's...a problem, though no offense, but I think you're a giant dou—um. I mean. Crap." Stiles began drinking his water, wishing it was vodka, or at least that he could drown himself with it. He outed himself and then continued to ramble, and then almost indirectly called Derek a douche.

Which, if it was weird for him that Stiles was gay, then he was, but that wasn't the point.

There was a slight uptick to the corners of Derek's lips. "I know what Proposition 8 is, Stiles."

Stiles waited, but that was all Derek seemed to have to say on the matter. He opened his mouth, but quickly closed it, having no idea what to say. He changed the subject. "So, are you staying?"

"If you wouldn't mind."

"I, yeah, yeah, no, I mean. Sorry." He huffed a laugh. "It's fine, I don't mind. Let me...let me get you a blanket." Stiles stood up and stalled, having no idea where anything was. He mentally berated himself for only taking a quick tour of the bedroom and kitchen, just to be a nitpicky asshole. He glanced at Derek.

"In the cupboard, on top of the Scrabble," he said, pointing.

Stiles nodded and followed Derek's instructions. He pulled out a blanket and pillow, which he then handed to Derek. Who had the look of someone who was internally debating something. "You're allowed to ask me questions, you know," Stiles said, in an attempt to get that look off of Derek's face.

"So why is it that you aren't, um, quite yourself right now?" Derek asked, accepting the pillow and blanket. He set those on the couch, then, before removing his coat.

Stiles began to pray to every deity _ever_, because as in shape as Danny had been, he wasn't Derek levels of in shape. He was still wearing a long sleeve so Stiles couldn't actually see the muscles, but he could make them out. He tried to focus on the fact that Derek had asked him a question, rather than Derek's arms. "Oh. I broke up with someone, yesterday. And for once, I guess I was feeling that I didn't want to be alone over the holidays. I figured if I was somewhere else, well, then I wouldn't realize that I was alone." He paused. "Then I got here and never felt more alone in my life. _Big_ surprise, right?" Shaking his head, Stiles sighed. "Bet you're glad you knocked on this door."

"I am, actually," Derek said, glancing at Stiles' lips.

Wait.

Yes, he totally had. Derek had totally glanced at his lips. So Stiles licked them, catching Derek glancing at them again. "Yeah, well, uh, sorry and goodnight," he said. And no, his voice was not slightly higher, it most definitely was not.

Derek actually _smiled_ slightly, and said, "Sweet dreams," leaning forward and kissing Stiles. Before Stiles could reciprocate, or even think about reciprocating, Derek was pulling back in shock. "I. Um."

"Do you think you could..." Stiles smiled and laughed. "Um. Would you mind...trying that again?"

Derek quirked an eyebrow before slowly leaning forward again. He brushed his lips against Stiles' lightly, before pulling back again.

Stiles made a face.

"Bad?" Derek asked.

Biting his lip, Stiles sat down on the couch, Derek following after him. "More of...weird," he settled on. "I don't. I don't kiss random strangers often. And I didn't even know you swung this way. Wow. Okay." He turned to face Derek. "Let me try this." Stiles leaned forward, wrapping a hand around Derek's neck. He kissed him, keeping his eyes open the whole time.

Stiles pulled back. "Damn. Okay. Maybe if I actually closed my eyes this time." Slowly, he let his eyes fall closed, feeling Derek frame his face. He opened his lips a touch, prepared to make this kiss work, when instead, he felt Derek kiss his eyes. Which felt..._good_. Weird, yeah, just a bit, but it also felt really good. He heard himself moan before Derek's lips finally met his. Stiles began kissing back, finally, but there was something on his mind and he just had to say it. He pulled back again.

"You know, given that I'm in a bit of a personal crisis and I find myself in a total stranger's home—in a town that I can't actually remember the name of—and considering that you showed up and you are, _God_, insanely good-looking and really drunk, so drunk that you probably won't remember me anyway...I'm thinking..." Stiles trailed off, biting his lip. "I'm thinking that we should have sex."

Going by Derek's completely gobsmacked expression, that was the exact opposite of what he expected Stiles to say.

"If you want, of course," Stiles added.

"Is that—" Derek began before breaking off to clear his throat. "Is that a trick question?"

"I'm actually serious, I mean. This whole knowing-I'll-never-see-you-again thing is, like, really exciting. I'm not gonna lie. And this is what vacations are supposed to be. You're supposed to vacate your life, do the unexpected. And you are..." Stiles grabbed Derek's tie, a tie he didn't even realize Derek had been wearing, slightly pulling on it. "You are most definitely unexpected."

There was a grin playing on Derek's lips. "You know, this all sounded wonderful until I became the cabana boy."

Stiles laughed and surged forward, pressing his lips to Derek's again. "Funny, too," he mumbled against Derek's lips. He felt Derek lick into his mouth and moaned. Stiles quickly pulled back again, Derek following after. "Oh, also, I should warn you," Stiles said, looking down. "I'm not. I'm not very good at this."

"This being...?"

Biting his lip, Stiles said, "Sex." He waved away Derek's initial protest ("Now, that _cannot_ be true."), continuing: "The guy that I lived with, he, uh, mentioned it once or twice. No one forgets a comment like that, and so I just feel the need to warn you." He nodded, finished, and pulled Derek to him, kissing with fervor, before pulling back again. "I mean, how bad could I be? Sex is pretty basic, right?" He watched Derek nod along and frowned. "I'm talking you out of this, aren't I? I. I talk a lot, I'm sorry."

Derek cradled Stiles cheek, shaking his head. "No, it's. It's actually endearing. You talk a lot now, you'll probably talk a lot in bed. Always a plus." He opened his mouth to say something else, but Stiles latched his lips onto him before he could. Stiles bite Derek's bottom lip, pulling on it as he pulled back.

He stood up, keeping a light grip on Derek's tie. He pulled on it a bit, saying, "I think we should go upstairs now." Stiles let go of the tie, dashing upstairs, laughing as he heard Derek's footfalls after him.

xXx

Stiles was never good at the morning after.

Okay, truth time: he never had one night stands, period.

He was sure he could, if he wanted, but he'd been in a relationship with Danny for most of his adult life and because he wasn't a cheating asshole, a one night stand was a thing that just didn't happen to Stiles. And so, he felt incredibly awkward, waking up with Derek's arm across his chest, his face tucked into Stiles' neck.

Oh yeah, and Stiles was totally right: Danny's level of in shape was nowhere near how in shape Derek was. It made Stiles wonder what exactly he did for a job, if he was a personal trainer of some sort.

Stiles extricated himself from Derek's arm and the bed, stumbling around the room to grab his boxers and pajama bottoms. He didn't know where his shirt had gotten to, which made him grin in the memory of last night. He stumbled downstairs, getting himself some water before he messed with the coffee maker. Which he couldn't, for the life of him, get to work. He nearly dumped his water on the stupid machine before he heard Derek's voice. "You, um. Do you need help? With that?"

"Oh, uh, yea-yeah. If you don't mind." Stiles stepped back, trying not to notice that Derek was shirtless too. But he could see those beautiful back muscles, and a tattoo that he hadn't noticed last night. "You have a tattoo?" he asked when Derek turned around, the coffee maker working.

Derek nodded distractedly, checking the pockets of his jacket. "Sorry, I lost my contacts last night, so." He paused, grabbing a pair of glasses out of one of his pockets. He put them on and grinned at Stiles.

Who wanted to shoot himself.

Because come fucking _on_. Why did he have to meet probably the most fucking gorgeous man in a country he didn't live in, especially since he would be going back home that day.

There weren't any Dereks in L.A. because anyone who at least _looked_ like him was a pretentious douchebag who would never give Stiles the time of day, even if he was the one who edited the trailer for their new movie.

The point was that Derek shouldn't have been allowed to look that good in glasses. Because no. Stiles didn't look that good in _his_ glasses (that he almost never ever wore, thank you very much).

"Right, my tattoo," Derek said, startling Stiles out of his revere about Derek's attractiveness. "I got it back in high school. It was a really shady parlor, but my parents wouldn't give me permission. Gave Scott blackmail material for years."

"What's it mean?"

"Different things to different people. My birth mom had one, too, and I guess I thought it would give me a connection to her, but." Derek shrugged.

Stiles thought of a handful of questions he'd love to ask (_"Birth mom?" "Did she die?" "Is she not Scott's mom?" "How related are you two?" "Did you know her, if she died?" "Did she leave?"_), but getting to know Derek was not part of his plan. In fact, he needed to try to distance himself as soon as possible—and try to convince himself that Derek really wasn't _that_ attractive. And also didn't make the most wonderful noises during sex.

Shit.

Derek gripped the chair in front of him. "So, Stiles, I just—"

"No, just. Listen." Stiles paused, preparing. "You don't have to worry about a thing here. Okay?"

Derek cocked his head, confused, and said, "Okay," dragging the word out.

"I mean, it was great meeting you and everything."

"Definitely." Derek paused, and Stiles could tell that there was something else he wanted to say. "For the record, your ex is, in my opinion, extremely mistaken about you."

Stiles laughed. "Yeah, well, you were drunk."

"Not _that_ drunk."

"Well due to the fact that your shirt seems to be missing too, I beg to differ."

Derek glanced down at his chest, as if he hadn't realized he was shirtless. "Oh, no, I was planning on taking a shower."

Stiles most definitely did not begin to picture that. He also didn't think about asking, "Do you want me to join you?" because that would be weird. And overstepping. He told Derek not to worry about this. Stiles would not become one of those obsessive one night stands who thought that just by pushing they could make more happen.

Before Stiles _could_ say anything, though, a ring sounded through the kitchen. They both glanced at the table, Stiles grabbing the phone after Derek said, "Oh, that's mine."

Stiles glanced at the screen and said, "Laura," before he realized what he was doing. He handed the phone off before putting a hand to his face. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to look. Sorry."

Derek canceled the call. "I'll just. I'll call her back. Listen," he began, "I'm think I'm going to go take my shower and then I have to go. But. I know you're leaving and are absolutely not interested in getting involved. But, just so you know, things in my life are...complicated, right now." He paused, taking a breath. "Even if you were staying, I can guarantee that you wouldn't—"

And Stiles had to interrupt him. "You really don't have to do this," he said. Because it was true. He may not have taken part in many one night stands, but he'd seen movies (of course); he knew how people rejected others. Derek's explanation of how "his life was complicated" and that Stiles "wouldn't want to get involved" were classics. Stiles sighed. "Look, I'm sort of a mess in this area myself. And, anyway, we hardly know each other, right?"

"Well, I wouldn't say _that_, but I just want to assure you that you're better off. I'm—"

"Okay." Stiles folded his arms across his chest, leaning back against the counter. The easiest way to avoid this was to just agree. Come off as cool and calm about the whole, while in all actuality, all Stiles wanted to do was lick Derek's abs (_again_) and join him in the shower for a second round.

But Derek refused to be moved. "I just. I want to be sure. That you are okay because somehow I." He sighed. "I find that I tend to hurt everyone, whether I mean to or not, just by being myself and..."

Stiles gave Derek a small smile. "Dude. I'm not going to fall in love with you, okay? I promise." Which, while not a complete lie, Stiles felt like maybe it could become one.

Derek's eyebrows raised to his hairline. "Oh. Okay. Nicely put, then, I guess."

Stiles wanted to say something, comment on how Derek was giving him mixed signals and he just didn't know what signal to act on. But he stayed silent.

Derek nodded and turned around to go back upstairs. Then he paused. Turned back around. "Well, you probably won't be hearing from me again. But. What if I wanted to call you?"

And just like that, a meteor crashed into the kitchen.

Okay, not really.

But Stiles would have felt less shocked if it had.

"Right. Sorry. Not the right thing to say at all," Derek said, taking Stiles' silence as a rejection. "However, if your flight's canceled or for some reason you decide to stay, I'm having dinner with friends at the bar just in town. And you're. You're welcome to show up. If you want." He nodded one last time and then made his way upstairs.

Stiles stood there, so very, very, very confused.

* * *

Poor Stiles, bb.

Okay, I'm hoping to get chapter six out Thursday, but don't hold me to it? If you want to annoy me, go to my tumblr at adelaidebabe. We can also freak out about the new episodes of Teen Wolf! Thanks for reading!


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